LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap Copyright No 

Shell % L^ 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



LEST YOU FORGET 




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T,F.ST YOU 


FORGFT 


SOME THOUGHTS OF ONE 


CALLED HOME 


GATHERED TOGETHER FOR THOSE HE LOVED 


PRESS OF 

CHARLES B. HIBBERD 

SOUTH BEND, IND. 



TWO COPIES RECElVffi,), 

Ui^rary of Cc.g.eg^ 
Offfce cf tU' 



51379 



COPYRIGHT 1899 

SOUTH BEND, INDIANA 

1899 



«> 



SECOND COPY, 






o 

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CHARLES BRACY LAWTON. 



BORN JUNE 27, 1867, 
DIED JANUARY 30, 1899. 



HERE are some lives which cannot be judged or 
measured by the petty rules with which we mete 
out praise or blame to the ordinary individual. His 
was such a life. 

His character was unique ; well rounded, yet so 
removed from the commonplace that the world could 
not always understand it. 

But his friends knew. That was enough. He was 
indifferent to the verdict of the multitude, but to be 
blamed by one he loved was pain, a pain that, happily, 
he seldom felt. 

These flowers of genius which blossomed in the 
later years of his young life, are not all that is left to 
those who miss him. 

There are memories too sacred to be shared; mem- 
ories of noble deeds done without ostentation, of sac- 
rifices which were unheralded, of sympathy which 
went out to all who were desolate and oppressed, above 
all of fidelity unspeakable and unsurpassed. He was 
so true a friend that one's pen falters when it dares 
to measure the height and depth and extent of his 
faithfulness. 

And he asked nothing in return. He gave up 
his love and care and friendship as the sun gives light, 
driving no bargain, requiring no pledge, exacting no 



return ; never stopping to ask if the recipient was 
worthy; never inquiring if he was poor or rich, of high 
or low degree. 

Such a nature could not find a home on the dusty 
highway. He loved art for art's sake, he found a cer- 
tain happiness in the innocent gayety of social life, 
but he liked better the wide wind-swept prairies, the 
simple hedge-row flowers, the song of the shining 
river, the rose that blossoms by the door- step. For 
he was a poet, with a poet's heart, and we who knew 
him did not guess it until he had woven words into 
verse that stern critics stopped to praise. 

And then, with many songs unsung, he went 
away. But his friends will not forget, for love remem- 
bers. 

Flora Louise Stanfldd. 



WHEN ONE FAR MORNING COMES 

♦\ \ /hen one far morning comes and I must lie 

Unheeding word or prayer; when to convey 
Unto the tomb my tired, unshriven clay 
Some strangers wait and, looking, haply sigh ; 
Then when you doubting stand and wonder why 
These things are so, and grieving turn away 
Lest tears and suffering at last betray 
The love which you no longer will deny ; 
Then when to judge e'en false men will forbear ; 
Then when to you I have turned cold, severe, 
And on my features grimly death's mask wear. 
Remember as you speak to me how dear 
Belated words will be that lying there 
So still, so deaf, I listening shall hear. 



SOMEWHERE 

♦VX/E stand some silent friends around a bier; 

We knew him in those years when hoyden heart 
Found relish keen, and something counterpart 
In supercilious life, before the fear 
Of captious middle age, before the tear 
Of penitence adown the cheek did start. 
Dear death, if thou art only sleep thou art 
The amaranthine friend of failure here ! 
Though it is proved he was not born to lead 
His fellow men in any wondrous way. 
To those who throw the lance amiss and bleed. 
He gave such words of cheer as he could say. 
For this alone, from all its fetters freed, 
Somewhere that soul may find its peace today. 



TOGETHER 

J WALK alone, and so must thou, dear, too, 
Tread seemingly before the eyes of men : 
For fate has widened well our paths since when 
We with the grasp of friendship said adieu; 
But yesterday the bending grass to you 
A message took from me o'er moor and fen; 
Today it nodding low speaks back again 
And tells me that you trust me, know me true. 
Yes, all the way we walk as strangers here, 
And no one knows how well we understand 
Each other's burdens, nor how very near 
We really are, bound by a woven band 
Which knits us close — And so, my dear, my dear. 
Though far apart, we yet are hand in hand. 



YOU WENT AWAY 

V^OU went away that chill October day 
-L While murky clouds obscured the sun from sight. 
We marked them not, so fitting and so right 
It seemed that nature's mood should not be gay. 
I looked into your eyes but did not say 
That I would have you stay, how dark the night 
Would be with those eyes gone, nor yet how bright 
They made my day, and then — you went away. 
Ah, dear, if those last moments which we knew 
Could but disclose the secx'et that they hold 
You might return, but things that are are best. 
Since you must hear me speak to know me true, 
Would bind by bargain, try me with a test. 
Let mine remain that sweeter love untold. 



SWEET DEAT,H 

*M H, now I know that you who seemed so cold, 
That you of whom I felt the deepest awe 
And dread year after year; in whom I saw 
A foe to bear me to a tomb where mould, 
Decay, and dampened clods would me infold, 
Are, after all, my friend. There is no flaw 
To-day I would amend in nature's law 
Which put me in your strange and subtile hold. 
With faith grown out of hope, I place my hand 
Thus willingly in yours, with no regret 
That you have come. To gain the unknown land 
Which you conceal, I gladly pay the debt; 
For this weak, flagging clay no more is manned 
To brave life's way, and timely we have met. 



THE FORGOTTEN NEST 

V^OU who but yesterday, with untried wing, 
J- A fledgling, left your home, the cozy nest. 
And pause to-night beneath strange skies to rest. 
There with the morning sun to wake and sing: 
Hare you no hint of memory to bring 
To you that little rounded home? Your breast 
Will be no more within its confines pressed; 
Nor will you there renew your twittering. 
But lagging feet may find an easier way 
Since you are pouring forth your happy song; 
The dulcet strains within your limpid lay 
May lift some tender heart above the throng. 
So let me to that home my homage pay, 
In which your wings for feathered flight grew strong. 



A LITTLE MOUND 

J STOOD one day beside a little mound 
I knew so well that lies upon the hill, 
And wondered long, as one grief-stricken will, — 
Had agony before reached depths profound 
As these? Had yet one known such pain, or found 
A life as spiritless, a heart as chill 
As mine had been since nature subtly still 
Enwrapped the mystery of death around 
That little form of hers, my first-born child? 
This punishment seemed all that I could bear, 
But now, when I another hopeless find. 
Weeping for one grown nameless and defiled, 
I think of my own dear one lying there, 
And feel that death to me was almost kind. 



FAILURE 

J WALKED today with one whom men despise, 
With one who wears the chafing mail of sin 
Without complaint, who of the fight within, 
The clamoring flesh, the soul's base sacrifice, 
Proffers no hint, nor tells where victory lies. 
Save by the furrowed face, the stern, set chin, 
An eye which comes with failure, and the thin, 
Parched lips that serfdom wears when freedom dies. 
The verdict given by men may yet be just 
Though seeming harsh, and I may fall as low 
Even as this one walking by my side, 
He, too, may be unworthy of my trust, 
Perhaps 'twere best had I withdrawn in pride, 
But yet the Christ would not have done it so. 



TO A FROZEN QUAIL 

♦M ND was it hard for thee to die, Bobwhite ? 

To lose thyself amidst the drifting snow ? 
To fold the wings and drop the tired throat low ; 
Then wait until thy bird soul made its flight 
Upward, into that great unmeasured height, 
That thou, thou lonely one, didst never know 
On earth? Or didst thou sleep, and sleeping so, 
Dream of a summer day and lambent light ? 
Across the meadow-grass no more, Bobwhite, 
Shalt thou thy call so quaint, so desolate, 
Pi"oclaim. Now understood, now heard aright. 
By one, that one, for whom thou long didst wait, 
Bobwhite, thou hast for the eternal night 
Made answer to the calling of thy mate. 



LIMITS 

JF thou shouldst go to lands across the sea, 
Projecting no return still I would pray 
That kindly winds would take me there some day; 
If, after strife and longing to be free. 
The hidden life should be unveiled to thee, 
Though I came weeping where you sleeping lay, 
Yet would I know that I at last might stray 
There too, not doubting God's infinity; 
Or shouldst thou, weakened, borne down on the way. 
Let fall thy standard, sinking each day lower, 
E'en this I could forgive in sympathy. 
But if thou'rt false in loving, then I say. 
The wave which last night broke upon the shore, 
Is not lost more eternally to me. 



o 

J 



AS YE DESIRE 

*H-j S ye desire, it shall be meted so ; 

As ye desire, death through eternity. 
Can mortal worth ope prison gates, set free 
The soul that stifles there in sin-born woe? 
As ye desire ye shall in wisdom grow ; 
As ye desire — desire shall ever be 
The complement of Christ's Nativity. 
Most merit lies in the desire we show; 
Desire from out the sin-clogged heart can rise 
Purl like the spring within the brackish stream ; 
On in its chastening course to deep seas flow, 
And, widening there, the soul immortalize, 
Be, then, desire the heart's sincerest theme ; 
Desiring well, ye shall deserve it so. 



APART 

*M LL confident, in callow time of youth, 

I vainly strove to quell discordant song; 
Assumed in pride a sphinx-like mien toward wrong 
In every guise, and when I saw, forsooth. 
How glittering pleasure mocked at homely truth, 
Wept tears which now to deeper griefs belong. 
Dear, hallowed days, you far transcend the throng 
Which since have passed. I then asked no man's ruth, 
Nor will I seek it now, for little stays 
Me here. I crave no more melodious lays. 
That galaxy of youthful dreams which fled 
Like ghosts at dawn lives only as my dead 
To me. To dreams and dead there are no guides 
But time and hope. 'Tis only faith abides. 



AMBITION 

JS it to be that I have given all, 
Not faltered once, nor ever failed to lay 
The costliest victories at your feet each day; 
Have watched and nursed you well, lest you might fall 
Before those attributes of men they call 
The better and more wise; your hardened way 
Have followed long and late, to have you say 
You can no laurel place upon my pall ? 
I would not be the fallow field where no 
Man cares to sow, where weeds ai"e rank and rife, 
So turn my furrows toward the sun, that I 
For you, when rains descend, again may grow 
The fuller grain of my maturer life; 
You have a charm, to lose which is to die. 



AFTER G-LOW 

♦\ X / ERE we to go to Lethe's stream, dear one, 
And leave therein those vague heart-fears 
which haze 
The ardour of October's ripened days, 
Which paled one happy year the summer sun; 
If there misunderstandings which begun 
Beneath an April sky of sombre greys 
Were sunken deep, and only matin lays 
Were echoing on where memory's course doth run; 
If then we lost that passionate unrest, 
Which comes to life when life it's love has found. 
Could we returning see the gold flecked west 
Which waits where lowery night comes hovering round? 
Had life not broken wave-line at the crest 
We had been^'souls in sandy shallows bound. *■ 



NOVEMBER 

r^CTOBER'S gorgeous dyes are all laid low, 

With cold crossed hands November sits and grieves, 
Bereft of hope as those pale clinging leaves. 
Wi^apped in her sombre hangings, lost in woe. 
Repression vain, she lets the cold tears flow, 
To lave the mould from late outlying sheaves, 
And when the northwind her last tear bereaves. 
Green mallards rise and to the southward go. 
Still waits she on, more chill, more weirdly wan. 
As one who sits by corse of human clay. 
And does not leave, though the loved life is gone. 
Uncomforted she waits, — till over 9,11 
Unsightliness of death and earth's decay, 
December comes and spreads a whitened pall. 



DEAR LITTLE FACE 

^"TAEAR little face so full of trust 
©=ky That now is all believing, 
Dear little face that some day must 
Find life filled with deceiving, 
Dear little face that draws to mine 
Nor dreams of dreaded danger. 
Would I could keep you to the end 
To disappointment stranger! 

Dear little face that asks to know 
The mystexy of living, 
Dear little face that years will show 
That life was made for giving, 
Dear little face where lines will grow 
And deepen with life's sadness. 
Would I could keep you from the low. 
Replacing grief with gladness ! 

Dear little face, how can you meet 
A world strong men defying ? 
Dear little one, why must you hear 
The sorrowing and crying ? 
Dear little face — I dare not dream 
But praying here above you, 
I draw you closer in my arms — 
God knows how well I love you! 



LIFE IS A LITTLE THING 

YSiIPE is a little thing; what no one knows, 

X~^,_^ The mystery unbidden comes and goes, 

Birthcries are met and stifled in the air 

By wailings for the dead arising there, 

We do but know we live before we find 

The end is near. Life is a little thing ; why should we mind . 

Life is a little thing; a bending reed, 

No seeming mission but to break and bleed; 

As siduous care may make the weed a flower 

Yet it must have at last its fateful hour. 

When bruised it hangs upon a broken stem. 

But weep not for the flowers . Life is a little thing to them. 

Life is a little thing of days and years 

Filled in with morning suns and raining tears, 

Some furrows deep and some unbroken sod. 

The plowing deep or shallow lies with God. 

What matters it to us how days shall be 

Of sun or rain? Life is a little thing to you and me. 

Life is a little thing; then bid it go, 

Why do men cling to that which hurts them so? 

If life is fight and death the battle won 

Lay down your arms, let mystery be undone, 

If heaven is gained with but a single leap 

Why all this fear? Life is a little thing to nurse and keep. 



LIFE IS A LITTLE THING 

Life is a little thing, then why this dread 

Of some few weary miles that stretch ahead ? 

Speed on today — Take life at its best worth, 

Tomorrow's sun may find you lost to earth, 

Tomorrow of today is but the test, 

Do what you can. Life is a little thing to live at best. 

Life is a little thing that lies between 

A world we know and worlds that are unseen, 

A modulation in a minor key. 

From what was once to that which yet must be; 

The ages keep the harmony complete, 

And in the plan, life is a little thing that we must meet. 



OUT OF TUNE 

(5\ rE pipes and pipes discordant strains 
J \,__^_^ Into each passing ear, 
And prates of all his plagues and pains 

To those he holds most dear. 
He hides no bitterness, no blight, 

No wounds of sordid grief; 
He drags them all into the light 

And hopes to find relief. 

He chaunts a dirge in solemn breath 

Along the public way. 
He flaunts the cerements of death 

Where prattling children play; 
He drowns all memory of song 

And lets some flower bleed, 
While listening for the note sung wrong, 

While cherishing some weed. 

He wanders through the summer days 

Though they be faultless fair, 
And does not hear the roundelays 

Vibrating everywhere ; 
But pipes and pipes his weary note 

On through the busy noon. 
Unmindful that his own poor throat, 

Is singing out of tune. 



SORROW'S WEED 

( ♦ j YOU tell me that sorrow's a thorn to the eyes 

Of a world that cares naught for my heartache and pain— 
G-rief must lie deeply hidden, and never dare rise 
Where 'twill check the blithe spirit that's sought and you feign 
That it mars all the happiness some struggler craves, 
That it makes of our acts and our lives living graves. 
But are you quite certain there is not a tie 
Which far deeper than smiles and smooth sailing doth lie, 
In which aching hearts meet; in which burning soul's fire 
Is both stifled and stilled ? That the bond which is higher 
While unsought and unknown by the world we call gay 
Much ennobles and purifies men — won't you say? 

Are you sure there's no gate we can push open wide 

Where sore pain and pure happiness walk side by side ? 

Is there no kinship proven to make us withstand 

The shortcomings of joy v/hile we're grasping the grand 

Soulful life that's grown out of deep grief and sweet pain ? 

Must I feel that all's loss, that there's nothing to gain 

Should I leave the soft path, pleasure paved, yet a snare 

For a road trodden hard by men weighed down by care ? 

Is there no suiting armor ? No garb worn by each ? 

No guide that to me will point out or can teach 

Me how near they were born and how soon will decay ? 

Are you sure they're not brothers? My friend, tell me, pray ! 



SORROW'S WEED 

My heart's blood has been spilled just a year and a day; 
Was it dashed out and chilled all for naught? O I pray, 
If you can, tell me truly, great heart, then must I 
Struggle on, wear bright masks, make a fight for a lie 
To my friends, dupe the world and its ways, just to hide 
All the best that's within me, the soul that's been tried ? 
Are there any who reck not reproof made by pain 
Except the light heart that's devoid of such gain 
While souls that are suffering, far banished from mirth, 
Are searching for my soul and ling'ring on earth 
That we may help each other to wear all the way 
Sorrow's weed ? If I smile can you understand, say? 



POINT ME THE WAY 

FOINT me the way ! O, stranger, say 
Thou unto me how I shall go, 
When I shall turn, and turning so, 
Whither and how. Tell me the way. 

To gain the tableland and plain, 
To leave the loam and miry clay, 
I lost my way on yesterday. 
Let me walk on firm roads again. 

Low lies the marsh on either side, 
The dead reeds crackle, bend and break. 
As some poor, hunted drake doth take 
Its course among their stems to hide. 

The dampened haze that lies about 
Is very chill. Lift thou mine eyes 
Up to the sunlit hills that rise 
Beyond and guide thou me without. 



A SONG 

J HEARD a song so subtly sweet, the theme seemed filled with danger, 
As heart-tones that we recognize awakening for some stranger, 
Out through the night I followed it, the melody long swelling, 
Then lightly low it came to me, as some young spring comes welling 
From in among the hidden coves of inland bays and reaches. 
And laughing runs and kisses shells, on sandy, shadowed beaches. 
I marked so long its rise and fall, its harmony enthralling, 
That when I turned the way was lost, beyond my own recalling. 
Oh song of heart, my heart, my song, my day-dream brimmed with gladness! 
Oh happy, fulsome song of love, my melody of madness ! 
Ah, would that I had not made free to know whence came the singing, 
I had not found the cerements so close about it clinging. 
If heart had listened on in faith, love had not known disaster, 
Nor that the motif of the song was purer than the master. 



THE FIREPLACE 

JF I should look into my heart and gain its first desire, 
We would be sitting, friend, to-night, beside your winter fire. 
And while we played with words and said some things we did not think, 
The ready wit would crackle quick, like coals that snap and blink. 
I have not seen through all the years a blaze as bright as yours. 
Among my friendships not found one whose memory so endures. 

The words we said are gone; I cannot now recall a phrase. 

But they were sparkling like your fire, in those dear halcyon days. 

There was a flash for every spark, a glow in blood and air. 

Then life held all the warmth of youth, was filled with do and dare. 

There is for us to-day no fire that clambers leap by leap, 

Youth soon burns out, life smoulders on, like ashes in a heap. 

I should not care to tell you how the sun for me has paled, 

I should not even say to you that all my hopes had failed, 

I should not ask that sympathy that your great heart could give, 

What matters it to-day to us, what each has yet to live ? 

But sitting there to-night with you, if I could have it so, 

We would see gleaming in the flame, the light of long ago. 



WHO IS DEAD 

(^ HE is buried on the hill, in the sand, 
^_^___^ Art and nature have been there and have planned 
Well to keep around her bed 
Lilies white and roses red, 
She was pure and too hath bled, 
Who is dead. 

So in life it was for her all along. 
Sweetest modulations filled out her song ; 
Why need then poor words be said? 
Why should tears for her be shed? 
Let heartsease for her be spread, 
Who is dead. 

There we left her all alone in the sand. 
Art and nature understood and have planned 
Well to keep around her bed 
Lilies white and roses red, 
She was pure and too hath bled. 
Who is dead. 



CELIA 

/q)ELIA hath a winning grace 

V^^ ^ Something rare, 

Not more winning than her face 

Or her hair. 
Dimples play at hide and seek 

All day long on Celia's cheek. 
No one ever calls her meek 

Or debonair. 

Eyes of brown which send a glance 

Here and there, 
Do her beauty much enhance, 

All declare. 
Eyes which always seem to say 

In a merry careless way, 
Life is but a roundelay 

Everywhere. 

How she walks I scare could tell 

Did I dare, 
Lithesome like a lily's bell, 

Light as air. 
All she hath of tears and woes. 

If at all such things she knows, 
More with poetry than prose, 

Will compare. 



CELIA 

She can talk both warm and cold 

Ah, beware ! 
Filling hearts of young or old 

With despair. 
And I wonder, since she seems 

To be made of dizzy dreams, 
How she weaves such wily schemes 

To ensnare. 

Celia's broken many hearts, 

Was it fair ? 
She has false and fickle arts, 

I can 'swear. 
Time is growing on apace — 

Maidens taking Celia's place 
Leave her but a broken vase, 

Who will care ? 



WINTER 

' "Y^-^I^E branches wait the builders of the spring, 
(^4^ That will grow busy with the waxing leaves, 
It only needs the starting of the eaves, 
To wake the robin from his slumbering. 

The ice bound river frets to join the sea ; 
Complaining brooks wait for the summer sun ; 
And I, who have no other dearer one, 
Am waiting through the dragging days for thee ! 



TRIOLET 

^J HE one who walked beside my way, 

My sweetest joys and sorrows sharing, 
Hath found another love today, 
The one who walked beside my way, 
To whom I did my soul portray 
Hath left that hapless soul despairing, 
The one who walked beside my way, 
My sweetest joys and sorrows sharing. 



GOD'S PLAN 

A Y /e fill a place in God's own plan, divine this life we live, 

The mystery pervading it a charm to life doth give, 
While we seek thi-ough the unstarred night the solving of our state, 
Omnipotent, an unseen hand doth build for each his fate. 

We do not fret when autumn shades are growing on the leaves, 
Nor that a scheming spider for his prey a network weaves. 
We know the summer foliage has served its useful days. 
We know the plan of insect life is just in all its ways. 

More wonderful is how we live than that we have an end. 
And whence we came, life's mystery doth all these things transcend, 
But yet we stand and ask to know the working of the plan 
Which God alone is justly, surely working out for man. 

As children do we stand and weep beside a mother's knee, 
And let a soft caress dispel the fear we cannot see. 
We give each day to human hands our confidence and trust. 
But hesitate to give to His, which only can be just. 

We shape our deeds by mortal signs and trust a human tongue. 
While He hath in a key divine through endless ages rung 
The music of the wandering wind, the listless wave of sea, 
And sung for man's discordant ear, harmonious symphony. 

The power which placed the fixed stars above the oceans blue, 
Which keeps the fieldmouse through the snow and wets the flowei's 

with dew. 
Which grows the wee faced daisy while it guides the planets true, 
Will shape for you and me, my lad, our course, and truly too. 



A LITTLE RING 

jY AY there the ring and let it bide, 
J-^"*-" Once it encircled close two souls, 
In its periphery once did hide, 
A dual earth, equator, poles. 

Once in its confines amply great, 
They wandered free and lived their dream, 
Let this thing then now compensate, 
It was all real and did not seem. 

There were no longings to go hence. 
It was a world sufficient, yet 
They gave it all in recompense, 
That they might break this amulet. 

This ring goes round and round and round, 
But has no power to hold or bind; 
There were two souls within it bound, 
But they were heedless souls, and blind. 

This bit of gold, a tiny thing 
To hold the argument of life; 
Ah, love is born to beg and cling. 
And lift men over selfish strife. 

Lay there the ring and let it bide, 
Count as you will of gain or loss, 
When gold is gone, we have our pride, 
When pride is gone, our gold is dross. 



^T HE knocker falls, and as one stunned, 

He hears the passing bell ; 
There is no hope, he is too late. 
He knew and knows full well. 
He makes the cross and turns away, 
Why should he longer wait; 
He prays as only they can pray 
Who broken are by fate. 
He bears his load and bears it well 
And bears it all alone, 
And that he bears it so some day, 
May for his sin atone. 



THAT DAY 

JT will not matter then to me 
If thou be near or far away ; 
I shall not care, thou wilt be free, 
I shall not ask one hour of thee 
"When we have lived that last sweet day. 

No, not one tear of vain regret 
Give thou to me; no sackcloth wear; 
Bring thou no lilies, rather let 
Them shape for thee a coronet, 
And place it on thy shining hair. 

For I shall not among all men 

Envy one's station, rank or birth ; 

I shall be king above them then. 

With knowing crowned and sceptered, when 

I shall have passed away from earth. 



MAY APPLE BLOSSOMS 

J KNEW a bank of loam laid earth 
Oak shaded, near cross roads, 
That was the home of birds and bees, 
Of squirrels and hop-toads, 
And there I dwelt long foolish days, 
And gathered in the spring 
A blossom formed of white and gold, 
A waxen sensuous thing. 

When south winds kissed the apple trees 
And turned them pink and white. 
When through the moss the maiden-hair 
Came peeping into sight, 
When hedge rows turned within a day 
From brown to living green, 
I looked for my two little leaves. 
And that white flower between. 

I can not hear the roundelays 

That come from full bird-throats, 

I sit in silence listening 

And miss the happy notes, 

But could I walk on that fair bank 

And that May blossom see, 

It would be heavenly happiness — 

Springtime once more to me. 



THE END 

J HEAR the dripping from the eaves, 
The eddying of fallen leaves, 
I hear the creaking of a door, 
The snapping of the drying floor; 
In all, I hear your coming, dear, 
I think each moment that I hear 
Your step, your words of greeting sound, 
But you are in the death-shroud wound. 

I hear them say that you are dead, 

I to an open grave am led, — 

I hear a cofQn lowering now. 

And, too, some words, and then somehow, 

The falling earth upon the lid, 

Beneath which your dear face is hid. 

The hour has come, poor heart, to break, 

To ache, to ache, to ache, to ache. 



THE BALSAM FLOWER 

f ♦ JNCE upon a time there lived in a small town a 
woman who was filled with love for little folks. 
She longed to teach them truths. She gave her days 
and planned her plans for these tiny people. She in- 
duced them to frequent her house, and it was not hard 
to do so for she was a lovely woman and she had a way 
of meeting these young minds which gave them confi- 
dence to go to her. Besides children's hours, there 
were hours for those on beds of torture, there were 
hours for heart broken ones. To all who needed help 
she ever found a way to give. She had duties mani- 
fold and many, yet not a year passed away without 
finding by her door a bed of perfect balsam flowers. 
She found the few moments in each day to keep the 
stalks green and growing until their blossoming time 
in the autumn. 

These things she loved — children and flowers. 
And so the years sped on. But she loved children 
each year the more and the balsams flaunted their faces 
every fall until the frosts bore them away. 

Many, oh, so many, years had worried by and 
people in this little town who had once been young 
were very, very old. The village streets were, as in 
the days forgotten, pressed by tiny feet and made glad 
with children's careless speech. One, day there came 
among them a stranger both worn and wan; one whom 
no one knew; one who knew no one; one who was ask- 
ing for a bed of balsam flowers. But the children 
laughed and said no balsam flowers grew in their town 



THE BALSAM FLOWER 

and called them old, old flowers . Then this one strange 
to all called to his side these happy hearts and told 
them how he as a careless child had trodden upon a bal- 
sam bed and broken there a growing stem. The one 
who cared for them had given no look to chide him, but 
stooped, he said, and gave a word of love and, too, a 
kiss which he had remembered to that day. 

Odc thing had lived with him and through all 
the years kept clinging on; through all those years of 
strife and pain it did not die. 

This simple thing — the love of one good woman. 



BETWEEN THE HILLS. 



^fVri 



TALE that is told with every setting sun, and 
'^ yet when we knew it had come true for Bar- 
bara, it seemed to us like the snapping of a song bird's 
wing. It was a thing too sacred for discussion so we 
all gave our hearts and spared the words. 

Only a commonplace girl we thought her then; 
now we recall innumerable things which placed her 
above and beyond us all. We were so rushed through 
the grind of the life out there that each was busy get- 
ting his own. 

A mile from Wilson's ranche it was and near the 
Red Oak ravine, and there we saw her at day break 
turning the cows to pasture. There it was that the 
little house of mud stood, devoid of lines of architec- 
tural niceties, but nature, all for the sake of Barbara, 
was there and through the long, hot summer days the 
tendrils of a bitter-sweet climbed up and over the 
moss-grown shingles until the dormer wind ows looked 
like port holes in an abandoned fort. To Barbara it 
was just a place to rest one's tired bones, to warm 
one's tingling fingers and to stop the gnawing of one's 
stomach. 

Up on the hill, behind the cottonwoods, through 
the shadowy weeks of April, we heard her whistling. 
Like the glints of sunlight shooting through the spring 
clouds it seemed, this effervescing spirit of a child so 
near to nature. 

Barbara was dark, Barbara was strong, yet Bar- 
bara saw the wild rose grow in the stubble field and 
knew that the goldenrod dyed the pasture. She used 
to say: " It looks like a big patchwork quilt." 



BETWEEN THE HILLS 

Once the overseer at Wilson's ranche crawled 
through the barbed wire fence to where Barbara stood 
in the plowed field. There was no shade for her 
tawny face, there were no shoes on the tawny feet 
which involuntarily sank deeper into the soil at the 
man's approach, while hands that were bare were burn- 
ing beneath the drying sun. He turned a furrow and 
urged Billy a bit, but he came back saying: "He who 
hires here has yet to learn from Barbara." 

She knows these things and knew them well; knew 
the time for cutting grain ; knew corn ripened slowly 
on new soil, but her learning had come in bumps and 
knocks. It has cost her much. The impression was 
indelible. Now and then she had with her black, Bo- 
hemian eyes that saw everything gathered bits of facts 
from the passers by, but she bad never cared for 
one of them. Men were men to her and made to toil, 
a little less than horses. Women; why women could 
work if needs be, and why shouldn't they? "See that 
load of corn? That's what I can husk in half a day." 
So it was for Barbara. This life of labor day by day, 
month by month. Long days, long months but with 
a merry heart. 

The merriment is gone. Now when the April 
clouds go by the whistling is not heard from behind the 
cottonwoods. We know the furrows are turned, some- 
how. We know the grain is put away and that Bar- 
bara does it all, but not the Barbara of a summer gone. 

One day a great, well made fellow came down from 
the ranche and lifted the plow as none had ever done 
before. Big forks of hay were to him a matter of play. 



BETWEEN THE HILLS 

Then Barbara found her king. He came in the even- 
ing when his day was done and to Barbara it seemed 
so easy now, all that had been work before. He came 
on Sundays too, and Barbara pinned a bit of ribbon at 
her throat, for something told her that such things 
made men fond of women and she now longed to keep 
this brawny fellow at her side. 

After such a little while the last night came. Bar- 
bara was dreaming, but not of fate. She was happy in 
her poor way. She laughed, although she could not 
say why. It was a fine thing to feel the blood in one's 
veins. 

Seasons have come and gone and, too, the crimson 
cheeks of Barbara. The little home of mud-made bricks 
with its clinging bitter-sweet is there below the hill. 
To-night outside the door she waits, then while a cloud 
keeps the moon from looking, she unfastens the bit of 
ribbon, passes inside the door and a little red light 
climbs to the loft, flickers a moment and is dead — dead 
like the heart of Barbara. 




A PRAYER. 

( HIS LAST VERSES. ) 

AKE me to bow, to bend, to break, 
To lose my pride and if needs be 
Tear thou my breast for thy name's sake, 
But leave, O G-od, these things to me. 

Leave thou the little face of trust. 
The chubby arms that faithful creep 
About my neck — O, if thou must 
Take all, but these, God, let me keep. 

Were those lips dumb I could not hear, 
Were those eyes set I could not see; 
Take what thou wilt, though priceless, dear 
But leave, O God, these things to me. 



